


Shallow Grave

by takadainmate



Category: Journey into Mystery
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:38:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takadainmate/pseuds/takadainmate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor finds Loki after his return to life. He's been gone too long.</p>
<p>Set after <i>The Mighty Thor</i> 12 and before <i>Exiled</i> 01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shallow Grave

**Author's Note:**

> A deal was made with Gnine. She drew art. I wrote fic to go with it. That beautiful art can be found [here](http://gnine.livejournal.com/58848.html#cutid1).

There's an uncomfortable dampness running down his back and the stone beneath him is cold, making him shiver. It's not an ideal place, Loki acknowledges, but it is away from distrustful eyes and violent, over-enthusiastic young evil-slayers and it will do. A dingy corridor hidden behind a labyrinth of narrow passageways (the cellars), veiled in darkness (because there are no windows), wreathed in foul stench (owing, most likely, to the piles of rotting garbage that line the walls). Never let it be said that the Asgardians are _pristine_ folk.

It's not hiding, Loki tells himself, because he does not hide. That would be ridiculous. This is, in fact, a tactical retreat, well thought-out and cleverly executed through the use of his feet moving very fast and his pursuers moving very slowly. If they won't follow Loki into his creeping, odorous haven (which is _not_ a hideaway) because they can't stomach the smell, it just goes to show how weak and how insincere they are, lacking even the least ounce of conviction.

Any decent fellow would have followed him down here. But they never do, and Loki is _not_ glad for it.

Loki has been here before, not too many times to count but more than he cares to remember. In the gloom and the damp he tries not to be bitter. Thor would not be. He would not be resentful. _He_ would not begrudge the cuts and the bruises and the indignity.

Ikol stares balefully down at Loki but offers no comment. His beady little eyes say enough and Loki turns away, resisting the urge to flick a stone at the bird. The ill-omen. The vile creature. The reason Loki is here in the first place. The movement pulls at abused, tenderised muscles in his side and Loki hisses, wraps arms around his stomach, and certainly does not think of how he might get his _revenge_. Even through the fabric of his tunic everywhere his hands and arms press against his body feels sore and Loki does not think of potions in the dear children's warm morning milk that turn their hair blue, nor magicked stones in their shoes that _just. won't. go away._ He can do none of it, not least because he doesn't know the spells. (Yet.) Not least because everyone would suspect and blame and judge Loki for any tricks of that kind in an instant. 

He wonders if _behaving_ is ever this difficult for Thor. Loki suspects not. 

There is little sound here, in his gloriously unappealing corridor of not-hiding. It is below the city, far from the light and the warmth and the celebrations; it has only been days since Thor's triumphant return and Loki suspects the rejoicing will not end for some time yet. There is food and drink to be stolen from the tables, and a general tendency towards distraction from Loki's existence which Loki greatly appreciates, but it grates that he- Thor's own brother- has yet to have the chance to say anything more than "Hey bro!" to Thor. And that at a distance, in passing. Lingering, Loki has found, does not often end well for him. 

Here, Loki can hear none of it, though he knows there is singing and dancing and the telling of very very tedious, repetitive tales of everyone’s great, oafish head-bashing skills. Here all Loki can hear is his own breathing (which hurts) and Ikol's rustling feathers (impatience, probably plotting to pluck out Loki's eyes in his sleep) and the steady drip-drip-drip of water on stone (Loki grits his teeth and tries not to think of it as _torture_. He's read that story, thank you).

Reading. He wishes he had something to read with him to pass the time. To take his mind off the aches that rack his body from too much sitting around in the cold and damp and too many unfriendly fists and feet. It makes him feel like an old man. Or what he imagines an old man would feel like, not knowing first hand for himself, never having been old. He could ask Ikol if he had known but suspects any conversation with the bird will just lead to something evil, eventually, and Loki has no stomach for it. Mostly, his stomach growls in hunger.

His books, though, are far away, across the other side of the city, and Loki would not like to run the gauntlet to get to them just yet. He has had quite enough fun for one day. It's too dark down here to read anyway.

Shifting restlessly, trying to find a more comfortable, warmer- or at least less damp and _hard_ \- position to sit in, Loki feels his phone in his pocket scraping against the wall. He'd forgotten about it in all the excitement and takes it out, hoping that the screen is not smashed. It cost him time and effort to procure and it would be a waste of both to have to repeat the process. It's distraction, too. Perhaps he can find something fun to do on the internet. Start a flame war. Perhaps play a game. Solitaire strikes him as depressingly fitting right now.

The screen- thankfully- lights up when he presses the buttons, the glass intact if scratched. The next magick he will teach himself, Loki decides, is a spell to protect his phone. He wipes the screen with his arm, wincing at how even that much movement pains him. It's nothing, but it's annoying and unnecessary and next time it would be better if the others didn't catch him in the first place. 

Loki shakes his head slowly, focuses on the mobile device, frowning when he sees that there are no bars indicating reception. No connection.

Of course not, he chastises himself. He is underground, surrounded by heavy ancient stone and godly trash. Loki would sigh if he couldn't feel the condemnatory eyes of Ikol still fixed on him. And it isn't even as though any of this is _his_ fault. He provoked no one. He was keeping to himself. He called no one irrevocably ill-mannered. 

He drops the cellular phone into his lap, tucks in on himself carefully and leans his head against the ridiculously cold, slimy wall. One would think in a city built anew, a place meant to be pristine, a diversion from the old, there would exist no such place as this; forgotten, dungeonous pathways. But there are always places like this, in everything and everywhere. Sometimes, when Loki wakes from nightmares of his old self wreathed in death and destruction and all those other hideous things Loki used to revel in, he can see them there too. 

Even so, Loki thinks, the grungy state of these walls seems excessive. 

He leans away, rubs at his forehead, wondering if he now sports a very unattractive smear of mud across his face when he freezes. It's instinctual, some part of him that is reaction without consideration telling Loki to be still. That something is close. _Someone_ is close. He hears nothing, but beside him Ikol's impatient flapping has stilled and the cold air shifts, a clear indication that _something_ is somewhere close, disturbing Loki's peace. Horror. Boredom. Whichever. 

In that instant of realisation Loki feels as though every breath he takes is as loud as a troll's wheezing, that a single movement will give him away and he has to force himself to relax because, Loki sternly reminds himself, he is _not hiding_. If it is his fine peers finally gathered the courage to pursue him into these dark halls then Loki supposes it only right they have their prize. Unless he can outrun them, deeper and further into the blackness. Even Loki has never ventured much further than this, where there is still some small grey light and the air isn't so bad as to make you gag. The path beyond is so dark it is almost a void, makes Loki imagine that if he ventured into it the darkness would swallow him up whole and he would never be able to escape again. 

He turns away from it, inches his way along the wall, gritting his teeth against the pain his careful movements cause in his side, in his arms. Ignoring how his clothes stick to his skin unpleasantly and how his shoes fill with water and his toes are freezing. A drying spell next, he tells himself. Definitely. He'll learn a drying spell next. 

There is a sharp turn just a few steps away, where Loki's narrow corridor joins with a larger hallway. Pressing himself close to stone, to the edge, Loki listens and waits and considers his options. There are worryingly few. In one direction Loki knows the large hallway leads to a dead end, and in the other direction it leads back to the castle, and neither is appealing nor helpful. Loki looks to Ikol, who watches him back with interest. To ask for assistance would surely give himself away, his voice echoing through the empty space. And what would he ask anyway? Hide me Ikol, bird-who-is-smaller-than-me? Scare them away, oh bird-who-does-nothing-but-caw-half-heartedly-at-others?

No, Loki decides. He is alone and all he can do is lie in wait until some opportunity presents itself for escape. It is a poor plan, unworthy of him, but Loki is tired down to his very gut and every inch of him is cold and aching, and he is in no mood to construct elaborate schemes, to weave ideas into new possibilities.

Slowly, empty silence gives way to the echo of footfalls; heavier than a child's and Loki wonders if he's in more trouble than he had anticipated. It's easy to imagine a brave, loyal warrior of Asgard(ia) taking it upon themselves to murder wicked Loki; to rid them all of the poisonous snake in their midst. Then, surely, everyone would sleep better in their beds at night. 

Down here in the dark and the damp it would be easy. No one would hear, and no one would care if they did. It's not an appealing thought. Loki could not even fight back. He has neither the strength nor the knowledge and what is more certain, if Loki were to harm anyone- attacker of not- he would be torn limb from limb by the entire city. An even less appealing prospect than a nice quiet choking hidden away beneath the great castle itself. (Hidden, not _hiding_.)

It's hard not to think of rotting corpses beside rotting trash. Ikol would _definitely_ peck out his eyeballs then. 

The footsteps beat a slow, hollow rhythm. Whoever it is moves without haste; searching. Loki presses himself more closely to the wall, crouched low, not caring how his knees cramp and he has to fight to hold himself still, stop himself from shivering against the cold, if it will keep him out of sight. So maybe he can admit that he's hiding now. Just a little. Anyone in this position would. His very unenviable, precarious position.

A flare of orange, flickering light erupts across the walls in the corridor beyond, casting uninspiring, garbage-shaped shadows. A lantern. Whoever it is, they must be close.

Rarely has Loki found fear in shadows and he suspects it might have something to do with the amount of time he spends in them (still not hiding). Or with the fact that he wakes half the time to find Ikol looming over him with great, black, creepy wings, looking like he's made of pure malicious wraith-creature and over the past weeks and months Loki has become inured to it. 

Mostly.

Loki looks again to his left, to the dark corridor beside him stretching out into total creepiness. Thor would not take that path, he thinks. Then again, Thor would not be not-hiding, not-cowering against a wet, dirty wall either. And it was that noblesse that got Thor killed in the first place. Stupid Thor. If Loki still has nightmares about how he played a part in that, if he sees his brother's blood on his hands sometimes (not that there was much blood. Mostly just dramatic collapsing into the arms of the All-Father) then it is just his overactive imagination. 

Ikol skips closer to the darkness and Loki thinks, if this metaphor were to become any more obvious it would eat him alive.

Loki pointedly looks away. He still has his tongue in his head (despite the thousand or so threats to remove it) and he is fast. 

The elongated, deformed shape of a man's shadow stretches long across the wall now, the lantern-light framing the blackness in colours that remind Loki of fire giants. Certainly a large man approaches and Loki will have agility over him, if nothing else. 

Waiting, Loki decides, is the worst, most boring, annoying thing ever.

Then, a scuffling sound erupts beside him and Loki's head whips around to catch sight of Ikol toppling over a pile of what looks like discarded, broken jugs and bones and rotting rags with his treacherous little claws. Waiting was boring, yes, but Loki hadn't _actually_ been looking for any more excitement in his life at this particular moment. Loki scowls and Ikol has the hubris to look serenely right back at him. 

The footsteps have stopped, the lamp-light swaying as the man pauses. Loki watches as the shadow twists and turns, looking carefully around. In no way does Loki hold his breath, trying to will the wretched bird to be _still_. He's certain his old self knew how to do this- to be invisible- but all Loki can think of are late night horror movies where telepaths or aliens or high-pitched-sound-making machines try too hard and brains explode in everyone's face. 

In any case, it doesn't work and Loki can see the way Ikol's wings twitch, threatening to topple more refuse. Against the wall, the unknown man's shadow sways and start moving again, his footfalls sounding faster than before. 

Loki risks hissing at Ikol, "What do you think you're _doing_?"

Loki can see the way the bird rolls its eyes. He didn't even know birds could do that. Ikol doesn't bother to lower his voice when he replies, "Encouraging you to _move_."

Wincing at the way his arch voice carries, Loki eyes the dark corridor warily.

"It's just a corridor," Ikol points out. 

There's no time, though, because the man's shadow has coalesced into the shape of something recognisably Asgardian. Complete with tall helm and long cloak, his steps are loud, close enough now that Loki can hear his boots splashing through stagnant water and the swishing sound of cloth against cloth. He's hurrying. The light of his lamp is bright enough that Loki's eyes burn and he has to squint.

"Too late," the bird squawks, hopping away. But Ikol doesn't abandon him and that's something, Loki guesses. 

Bracing himself, tensing his cold, aching muscles, Loki shifts onto his toes, waiting (more waiting. Waiting and waiting. Nothing happening here. Maybe the man won't notice him. Maybe Loki shouldn't be fantasising about invisibility cloaks.)

But then a voice calls his name softly, in a not-spitting sort of way that Loki had almost forgotten existed and Loki realises even before he can see the swinging golden lamp held by large, familiar hands, and the arm attached to it, and the well-known bulk attached to that who has come looking for him. He doesn't sob in anything like relief. It's a slightly chesty cough from skulking around amongst damp foundations for too long.

"Loki," his brother says again, peering into Loki's dark corridor and Loki can tell the moment Thor catches sight of him because his eyes widen and his smile flashes, bright and white and ridiculously sincere. Loki finds himself cringing away from the attention.

"Brother," Thor tries, his voice too-gentle, and Loki is not some kitten to be coerced into complacence with kind words. Slowly, as though he might run away at one false move (and Thor looks ridiculous, Loki thinks viciously), Thor crouches down before him, reaches out towards him and Loki inches away. It's easy to ignore the sound of Ikol ruffling his wings but harder to ignore the surprise (not _hurt_ ) in Thor's eyes. It shouldn't be so hard to meet his brother's eyes nor to keep his voice even when he greets him, "Hello, Thor."

Thor frowns, shifts his weight as though to stand up again and for one hideous instant Loki thinks that Thor is going to leave it at that; leave him there in the dark and the cold. Loki forces himself to remain silent but then Thor sets the lantern on the ground and crosses his legs, settling himself down onto the uneven, dirty, damp floor with a grimace of discomfort. Asgard(ia)'s chosen, most beloved child, slumming it. 

"Your breeches will get wet," Loki feels it necessary to point out. 

"Aye," Thor agrees. "They will." He points at Loki. "Yours too."

Loki nods mournfully. "Sadly long since gone that way." He doesn't mean anything serious by it, finding some semblance of confidence in familiar quips and light tone, but Thor's expression turns unhappy.

"How long have you been down here then?" he asks.

Loki tries to wave the question away with a careless hand. "Oh, only since nightfall."

His poor, concerned brother's lips twist. "That was hours ago, Loki."

"I should think so," Loki tilts his head, wonders if he should try a smile, "Considering I've been down here for hours."

"But-" Thor begins, pauses and looks around them, at the slimy, water-dripping walls, at the piles of rotting refuse, at the dark corridor beyond. "But" Thor tries again, "whatever are you doing here?"

_Not-hiding_ , Loki very much wants to say. "I have taken up entomology as a hobby, "Loki lies instead. "Insect collecting. I was looking for the rare million-legged rainbow-backed horse-fly winged millipede."

Too extravagant a lie by far, such that Ikol actually scoffs and that Thor just stares at him, but really, what exactly does Thor _imagine_ he's doing down here? 

Seconds pass and Thor watches Loki with an unfamiliar intensity; not watching him with suspicion but with something else that Loki doesn't recognise. For once his tongue fails him and Loki can think of nothing to say. Or rather, he can think of a thousand things to say but they are cruel and untrue and Loki would rather hold his silence. Instead, he turns away from his brother's scrutiny, looks down at the ground, scratches a blunt nail across the slick stone. He's still crouching and his legs are beginning to ache. Now the apprehension (not fear) has passed, now there is only Thor and there is lamp light illuminating the deceptive long shadows, Loki is beginning to feel the cold again, the soggy discomfort of his clothes. Pain seeping back into his limbs, sharp flashes of agony down his side, worse than before.

"I missed you at the feast," Thor says finally, his voice low enough that it doesn't echo. 

Loki resists the urge to shiver. 

"Because I was not there," Loki shrugs. He finds he is writing the words of a spell across the floor, he just isn't sure what they mean. 

"You do not welcome your brother's return?" 

It's the honesty in the question that causes Loki look up because no, if there is one reason Loki would avoid the great feasting celebrating his brother's triumphant defeat of death, it wouldn't be _that_. And certainly not after all the trouble he went to. (The trouble he went to seeing to it that Thor would die, Loki does not think about.)

There is a teasing smile, though, on Thor's face. "Ah. I see," Thor says. "Not that then. Are you embarrassed, perhaps? Am I not-" Thor frowns thoughtfully, searching for the word and Loki cringes because he can see precisely where this sentence is going. Sure enough Thor continues, " _cool_ enough?" He rolls the word on his tongue as though tasting it, contemplative.

Loki cannot help but grin. "It would be best, brother," Loki advises, "if you refrained from using that word. It does not suit you at all." 

"I suppose not," Thor agrees easily. "But it caused you to smile."

Sneaky brother, Loki thinks, surprised because he never would have imagined that Thor could be so shrewd. But then his brother has many, many years on him now, and this is not the Thor that Loki once knew. The Thor he knew was naive, arrogant, brattish. This older, scarred and worn Thor is not so easy to fool, harder to predict. And for all that Loki might wish it were otherwise- and for all that Thor tries- there is a distrust and suspicion that is not made of tricks and jokes but of betrayal and blood. 

The thought of what he is- might be- reminds Loki of why he is here at all and it is hard to maintain his grin, to brush these past weeks of isolation away. Without Thor there are none who would willingly speak with him, who are not under obligation to speak with him, who are not there to make threats or to fill his ears with cruel plots for vengeance on those who would hurt him when he asks, "What did we _do_?"

It is meant to be an insult, a diversion, when Loki tells Thor waspishly, "Your face makes me smile." 

There is perhaps less sting to his reply than Loki had hoped because Thor nods, taking it for truth. 

His eyes are bright, uncharacteristically knowing, but strange in the half-light, hollowed out and burning red. It reminds Loki of his nightmares, where Thor is a wasted corpse and in those dreams Loki laughs and laughs and laughs.

"I heard you," Thor says. "I heard you call."

Well.

"I shouted loud enough," Loki jokes, and ignores that it is also the truth. If he continues this way, Loki thinks, he will have to denounce his title, _God of Lies_. Instead he shall be Loki, God of denied-truths and brotherly bonding. Ikol pecks at the ground in what can only be annoyance, unless he likes the taste of stagnant water and mouldy, muddy ground. But then, he is a bird. 

"You reminded me of who I am." Thor, earnest, brave and strong and all those other qualities people seem to like. Loki cannot imagine him as anything else just as sometimes he cannot imagine himself as anything other than who he became. Except then Thor says, "I thank you, brother," and Loki wants nothing more than to stay like this forever; together, safe in his brother's presence, though possibly without the damp and the smell and bruises and occasional broken bones. Carefully, Loki holds his side and tries not to imagine what damage has been done to him this time. He knows he has been crouched for too long.

Now that Thor has returned there is hope, though. Now that Thor has returned perhaps he will not have to spend half his time lurking (still not hiding) in dark corners. Perhaps he will not have to fear for his bones and his neck so very much, conjuring magicks to remove blood stains from his clothes and stealing herbs from the healing rooms. 

"You're welcome," Loki replies because Thor continues to watch him closely and it is beginning to feel _creepy_. He tries to lever himself to standing, meaning to distract Thor's interest, tired of sitting in the cold and wet, but his muscles are cramped and it hurts and Loki only makes it half way before he has to stop, leaning against the wall and trying desperately to make it look casual, like he meant to stand in this half-crooked, stooped position. Unsurprisingly, Thor is not fooled and is at his side before Loki can even begin to think of some convincing circumstances under which he might have reason to find it difficult to stand upright. Before he can stop the hiss of pain when Thor grabs his arm to steady him. Thor gentles his touch instantly, chooses to hold Loki by his unhappily bruised side and it's all Loki can do not to flinch away, cry out, do other equally embarrassing things. It hurts too much though and Loki has to push the hand away.

"What-" Thor's voice is full of concern, confusion, lets his hand fall away easily. "What has happened to you?"

"Nothing," is Loki's automatic response. He concentrates on breathing. 

"Loki," Thor chastises.

"Nothing unexpected," Loki amends. Beside them Ikol clacks his beak and it sounds like a warning, but of what Loki can't decide. He is too busy studiously ignoring Thor's anxious hovering. 

"Brother," he says unhappily. Then, with hands infinitely more gentle than Loki can ever remember feeling before, Thor reaches out and takes Loki's face in his hands, making him look up. There is anger in his eyes, betrayal, and for once these things are not directed at Loki. Thor rubs a thumb across Loki's cheek. "You're cold."

It's something of an effort to remain silent, to not snap back, drive his brother away with icy, cutting words. It would be easy, Loki thinks. His older self did it well enough. But Thor's hands are warm and kind and Loki isn't sure he understands it, has known anyone- even Thor- to be so _nice_ to him before. 

Often has Loki seen the other children and their parents and their friends touch, hold each other, wipe tears from faces and other awkward displays of affection and Loki had always ignored it all, dismissed it as irrelevant, weakness, pointless, absurd to think that anyone would ever want to show _him_ such familiarity. Here is Thor, though, who his old self hated so much but also loved so much and maybe Loki is beginning to understand why.

When Thor moves his hands to Loki's shoulders, shifts closer, pulls Loki into the embrace of his arms Loki lets himself go. It's easy to seek out the warmth of Thor's body, of his chest- whole and unhurt- and Loki buries his face in his brother's neck because he's alive and here and surprisingly comfortable. This is safety, Loki thinks, and this is relief because he's just so tired. For once, he lets himself lean against Thor, lets Thor take his weight. His brother accepts it easily, willingly.

"Loki, Loki," Thor says quietly into his hair and wraps his long, thick cloak around Loki's back. Immediately, Loki is surrounded by the smell of leather, blood, mead; _Thor_. There are better odours, Loki thinks, but it's infinitely less offensive than rot and damp and at the moment Loki wouldn't want anything else. Unless it's a mint chocolate milkshake perhaps. 

If he were sensible he would be afraid, or at least mistrustful, of this. He is trapped, encompassed by Thor's improbably strong arms. He should be embarrassed, coddled within Thor's cloak. Loki just can't bring himself to care. There is no one here but them (and Loki has decided that birds do not count) and Loki will take what his brother is offering him. In this strange, orange-lit corridor they are brothers and nothing more. There is no past and no future. Thor does not try to soothe him with words- that would never have ended well- but rubs his wide hands over Loki's back (and Loki doesn't even mind when he presses too hard against bruises upon bruises), holds him up when Loki doesn't want to (not _can't_ ) stand any more. He's shivering and Thor pulls him impossibly closer (and Loki doesn't mind getting Thor's hair in his mouth either). 

There is almost angry possessiveness in Thor's voice when he says, "We will go to the healers." 

Loki presses his face against Thor's armour, curls in on himself because that is just about the last place he wants to go. 

Thankfully, for once in his life, Thor understands. He hums thoughtfully. "Your rooms then." 

Thor has not once set foot in what Loki thinks of as his tower. It's difficult to reach, avoided by almost everyone and Loki has heard the whispers; that he has cursed the very stones, that there are traps across the windows and poison fills the air and blood paints the walls. Even Thor could not have missed the rumours. Brave, fearless Thor, who picks Loki up without effort or argument when Loki gives no reply, announcing, "It's decided then." 

It is in Loki's mind to demand to be put down, to be allowed to hide in peace, but there is something fierce in the way that Thor holds him (too tightly, too close) that makes Loki think Thor will not release him for anything. (There is a knife tucked away in Loki's right boot that would probably be effective but, in truth, Loki doesn't want Thor to drop him. That would just cause more bruises and more trouble than it is worth.)

"We shall have food," Thor is saying. "And you shall tell me what you have been studying." 

In Loki's memory this is the first time Thor has ever cared to ask about- of all things- his _studies_. And Loki is quite certain Thor would not be pleased to hear he had been learning spells to hide himself and enchantments to cause blood to run freely from wounds as small as paper cuts because Loki had been having a bad day and was feeling vengeful. He hadn't used it, at least. 

"I found a spell," he tells Thor instead, "to keep the battery of my phone eternally charged." Thor's enormous hand is spread across Loki's back and it feels nothing like entrapment. It is childish, Loki knows, but just this once- _just this one time_ \- he will allow himself this. "No power sockets in Asgard," Loki adds thoughtfully. 

A strange warmth fills his stomach when Thor laughs, oddly quiet, and Loki is pressed close enough against Thor that he feels through armour and arms more than he hears his brother's laughter. 

Behind them Loki hears the scratching of claws against stone; Ikol, who always looks down at Loki with beady, disapproving eyes whenever Loki dares to act like the child he is supposed to be. Loki imagines he will be subject to much irritable pecking later. 

But Thor is speaking again, carefully hefting Loki in his arms. "I have heard it said that staring at those devices for too long is bad for your eyes."

"That might be true for humans," Loki points out. He does not mention that sometimes, some nights when he has not been able to sleep, been too afraid to sleep for fear of those who would slit his throat in those darkest, loneliest hours, been too afraid to sleep for fear of dreams filled with every reason why the noblest of warrior would _want_ to slit a child's throat, Loki had played on his phone for hours and hours until his vision was blurry and his eyes stung. By then, at least, the sun had risen and the shadows were consigned to slight strips trapped between corners and under bookcases. (And on the internet there were always humans to amaze and annoy and argue with and trick and they were all endlessly entertaining.)

"And Lokis who ignore their elder brothers too." Thor tries to sound stern but it does not work at all and Loki feels himself smile. It is fortuitous, Loki thinks, that his face is still mostly hidden against Thor's armour. He would not like Thor to think he were _funny_. 

"Oh, of course," Loki agrees amiably (and not at all sarcastically) because, for once, Loki would like to take the path of least resistance. 

Thor hums and it sounds self-satisfied, as though Thor has won some argument Loki did not realise they were having.

It is then that Loki realises Thor is moving, walking, slow and careful. It is unlike Loki to be so unobservant but Thor's armour is surprisingly comfortable and Loki has yet to look up, to face the world. He does not now, even though he knows there will soon be light and other people and Loki wants neither. 

Thor is talking, "We should spar tomorrow, you and I. I can teach you how to use a sword."

There is a fierceness in Thor's voice that makes Loki think Thor might actually be inciting him to violence. He wants to say, _You know I can't defend myself,_ even if he had the strength and the skill to, but instead says, "I have never wanted to learn before. Why should I start now?"

Perhaps Thor understands because he pats Loki gently on the back. "Then I shall have to stay with you."

They both know it's impossible, that it is likely they wouldn't be able to stand each other's company _all the time_ , but Loki would like to believe the sentiment.

Thor turns a corner, begins climbing the crumbling, water-logged steps back up to the palace and even with his eyes tightly closed and turning his face to press against Thor's neck light bleeds through Loki's eyelids, red and yellow filling his vision. There are voices, laughter, the raucousness of song. They cry Thor's name and Loki is almost afraid that Thor will change his mind then and there. That he will rejoin the revelries. But Thor does not pause and he does not stop when his friends and his followers call to him. 

Loki does not think how this must look to others; how weak and like a child he must appear, wrapped up in Thor's attention and his cloak. Then Loki remembers that he _is_ a child no matter how unconvinced most people are of the fact, and he is tired and he would like to forget for a while that he is anything else. Was ever anything else.

He feels Thor's hand on his face, shielding him from the view, and he says softly, "I will not leave you again." It's a promise of protection and of love and it makes Loki's stomach turn. Oh, he thinks, would you still say that if you knew I arranged your death so neatly?

He clings to Thor more tightly, fingers curled into the rough fabric around his brother's shoulders so tightly they ache. It's not cold here. He won't do it again. He'll be more selfish next time. There won't be a next time.

Loki says, "I'm glad you're back, brother," and means it.

**.End.**


End file.
